313 
N277 


CO 


OCTOBER. 


H AR V ARDI AN A 


VOL.     II. -No.     II. 


jcA  s-       A  ^  °  u-s 

\ .    2.     "V\.o«  "%•  , 


Juvcnis  tentat  Ulyssei  flectere  arcum.' 


CAMBRIDGE  AND  BOSTON: 

JAMES    MUNROE    AND    COMPANY. 

M  DCCC  XXXV. 


HARVARDIANA. 


No.   II. 


LEAVES   FROM   A   TRAVELLER'S    NOTE   BOOK.— No.  II. 

I  LIKE  to  visit  our  old  battle  fields.  The  associations 
connected  with  them  are  fraught  with  such  generous 
emotions,  that  I  always  leave  them  with  an  exalted  idea 
of  my  race  and  country.  I  love  to  refresh  my  memory 
of  history,  with  an  actual  view  of  the  spot  in  which  some 
of  its  momentous  events  have  occurred.  There  is  a  holy 
influence  about  the  place,  which  inspires  me  with  some- 
thing more  than  my  usual  ardor.  I  feel  a  glow  of  admi- 
ration at  the  zeal  with  which  men  will  devote  themselves 
to  their  country;  my  patriotism  is  invigorated,  and  I  re- 
turn with  firmer  resolutions  to  stand  by  my  country,  for 
which  so  much  blood  has  been  shed. 

The  early  wars  between  the  Colonies  and  the  French 
for  the  possession  of  the  border  posts,  seemed  a  necessary 
preparatory  step  to  the  Revolution.  By  these  conflicts 
the  Indians  were  taught  a  salutary  lesson  of  the  power  of 
the  colonists,  and  the  Americans  were  trained  in  the  se- 
vere trials  of  Indian  warfare,  to  a  skilful  handling  of  their 
weapons  in  the  struggle  for  Independence.  In  these  wars 
the  Commander-in-chief  received  the  rudiments  of  his 

VOL.     II.  NO.    II.  5 


34 

military  education,  with  many  of  his  subalterns ;  and  it 
was  on  Braddock's  Field  that  he  first  gave  proof  of  that 
consummate  wisdom  and  prudence  Which  so  distinguished 
him  above  other  men. 

In  the  wanderings  of  an  idle  summer,  chance  brought 
me  to  Pittsburgh,  and  from  that  city  I  took  occasion  to 
visit  Braddock's  Field.  It  might  have  been  expected  that 
the  long  lapse  of  time  since  the  battle  would  have  left 
but  little  remembrance  of  it  in  the  country  around ;  but 
no,  it  was  still  fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  old  settlers,  and 
the  rising  generation  had  received  ample  accounts  of  it  by 
tradition.  On  the  crown  of  the  hill,  in  an  old  log  hut, 
there  lives  an  old  revolutionary  soldier,  who  acts  as  guide 
to  the  curious  stranger.  His  memory  is  stored  with  facts 
gathered  from  participators  in  the  battle,  or  extorted  by 
dint  of  inquiry  from  the  Indian  survivors.  We  found  him 
laboring  with  his  children,  in  making  a  clearing  in  the 
woods,  and  wielding  the  axe,  as  if  his  arms  were  nerved 
with  the  strength  of  manhood,  instead  of  being  oppressed 
with  the  weight  of  fourscore.  On  invitation  he  came 
limping  down  into  the  road,  and  taking  his  walking 
crutch  from  the  hands  of  one  of  his  descendants,  he  set 
out  to  guide  us  around  the  field.  Here,  in  the  bosom  of 
the  West,  in  close  vicinity  to  the  Indian  battle  grounds, 
the  scenes  of  his  glory  in  the  wars  of  Anthony  Wayne, 
raised  to  an  humble  independence  by  the  bounty  of  his 
government,  he  has  set  himself  down  to  spend  in  tran- 
quillity the  remaining  years  of  his  life.  As  I  gazed  upon 
his  weather  beaten  countenance,  and  marked  the  furrows 
which  time  and  care  had  worn  upon  it,  the  dark  scenes 
of  the  Revolution  came  athwart  my  memory,  and  my 
heart  yearned  at  finding  myself  in  the  presence  of  one 
of  the  survivors  of  the  days  which  gave  birth  to  my 
country.  I  felt  as  if  I  stood  before  a  venerable  parent ; 
I  could  give  utterance  to  my  feelings  only  by  a  gush  of 
tears  —  the  warm  effusion  of  gratitude. 


35 

The  country  around  is  of  a  wild  and  romantic  charac- 
ter, and  seems  a  fitting  spot  for  deeds  of  violence.  The 
Alleghany  mountains  are  seen  far  in  the  distance  looming 
up  with  their  black  summits  into  the  sky,  and  the  whole 
surface  of  the  country  is  broken  up  into  mountainous 
ridges  and  hills.  Braddock's  Field  lies  on  the  slope  of  a 
hill,  rising  with  a  gentle  ascent  from  the  Monongahela. 
Two  deep  ravines  enclose  it  on  either  side,  and  at  the 
time  of  the  battle  it  was  a  wild  tract  of  woodland. 
Relics  of  the  battle  still  lie  scattered  over  its  surface  — 
its  very  soil  seems  thick  with  human  bones,  and  at  every 
step  you  strike  upon  some  fragment  of  the  human  frame, 
or  some  piece  of  military  weapons.  Mementos  of  the 
battle  are  in  the  hands  of  the  inhabitants  for  miles  around  ; 
and  if  the  same  spot  should  ever  again  be  a  contested 
ground,  the  surrounding  population  might  rush  to  the 
conflict,  armed  with  the  very  weapons  which  were  wield- 
ed here  an  age  before.  The  Indian  tomahawk  might 
again  be  grasped  —  the  heavy  musket  of  the  British  gren- 
adier, and  the  unerring  rifle  of  the  Colonist,  might  again 
pour  forth  their  destructive  contents. 

But  let  us  withdraw  now,  as  our  veteran  guide  begins 
to  feel  the  twitchings  of  pain  from  the  bullet  which  some 
Indian  foe  planted  in  his  side,  when  he  fought  under 
"  Mad  Cap  Wayne,"  as  he  calls  General  Anthony  Wayne. 
Standing  on  the  doorstead  of  his  hut,  let  us  survey  the 
scene  as  it  existed  at  the  time  of  the  battle.  Sweep  your 
eye  around  the  horizon.  See  ye  nought  in  motion  in 
those  deep  woods,  which  fringe  the  border  of  yonder 
stream  ?  Aye  —  at  yonder  ford,  there  issues  forth  a  little 
band  of  armed  colonists,  with  a  tall  Indian  in  the  advance 
as  their  guide  ;  and  now  above,  at  the  other  ford,  is  seen 
a  gay  troop,  with  a  mounted  general  at  their  head,  forcing 
their  way  across  the  stream !  This  is  Braddock's  regi- 
ment, and  the  other  is  commanded  by  Colonel  Washing- 


36  IP^H 

ton.  They  have  reached  our  side,  and  now  they  advance 
in  irregular  files  up  the  hill,  notwithstanding  Colonel 
Washington  is  standing  by  the  horse  of  Braddock  peti- 
tioning first  to  scour  the  woods  with  his  rifle  rangers. 
Hark !  in  those  dark  defiles  at  our  side,  I  hear  the  click 
of  the  rifle,  and  the  burnishing  of  the  tomahawk !  And 
now,  as  the  troop  ascends  the  hill,  down,  deeper  down 
the  murderous  band  nestles  in  the  tangle,  awaiting  with 
fiendish  delight  the  approach  of  their  unsuspecting  vic- 
tims !  Oh,  would  that  the  General  had  heeded  the  per- 
suasion of  the  Virginia  Colonel !  But  it  is  too  late  j  they 
are  abreast  of  the  ravines,  and  now,  down  upon  them, 
the  French  and  Indians  pour  a  shower  of  rifle  balls  and 
tomahawks.  The  gallant  band  is  staggered  for  a  moment, 
but  the  Virginia  Colonel,  pushing  on  his  forces  in  the  ad- 
vance, encourages  their  drooping  spirits.  They  rally  — 
but  too  late  j  the  deadly  rifle  is  thinning  their  numbers, 
and  ah,  treachery  is  in  the  ranks,  for  there  falls  the  British 
general  by  the  fire  of  one  of  his  own  soldiers  *  —  panic 
is  spreading  amongst  them  ;  the  officers'  voices  are 
unheard  —  and  away  they  tumultuously  hurry  down 
the  hill !  The  banner  of  England  is  trailing  in  the 
dust,  while  the  white  flag  of  France,  planted  on  the  top 
of  the  hill,  waves  in  triumph.  More  than  six  hundred 
men,  on  this  day,  poured  out  their  blood  a  sacrifice  to 

*  Such  was  the  fact,  as,  according  to  our  guide,  Braddock  was 
killed  by  an  American  soldier,  who  related  himself  the  circum- 
stance to  him.  Braddock  had  given  some  rash  orders  to  a  soldier, 
which  the  soldier  was  loth  to  obey.  Braddock  turned  to  him,  and 
accused  him  of  cowardice  ;  and  on  the  soldier's  persisting  to  re- 
fuse, he  raised  his  sword  to  strike  him  down.  At  this  moment, 
John  Hammond,  to  save  his  brother's  life,  fired  his  pistol  at  Brad- 
dock,  which  struck  him  in  the  armpit,  and  mortally  wounded  him. 
The  arm,  however,  followed  its  original  direction,  and  cleft  the 
skull  of  the  soldier. 


37 

arrogance  and  temerity.     Such  was  the  battle  of  Brad- 
dock's  Field ! 

Not  an  Indian,  of  all  those  who  fought  with  the  French, 
now  survives,  save  an  old  chief  who  lives  up  near  the 
sources  of  the  Alleghany,  and  whose  head  is  whitened 
with  the  snows  of  more  than  a  century  of  winters.  This 
chief,  who  bears  the  name  of  "  Corn  Planter,"  was  a  con- 
spicuous actor  in  this  battle  on  the  part  of  the  French. 
His  tribe  still  hold  the  grounds  on  the  Alleghany,  which 
their  ancestors  for  ages  before  them  possessed.  Old 
"  Corn  Planter  "  has  witnessed  two  generations  fall  before 
him,  and  has  seen  the  hunting  grounds  of  his  sires  be- 
come the  sites  of  populous  cities,  and  flourishing  farms. 
At  times,  when  he  comes  down  to  Pittsburgh,  he  visits 
the  battle  field,  and  there,  arm  in  arm,  may  be  seen  the 
old  soldier  and  Indian  chief,  treading  with  faltering  step, 
and  recounting  over  and  over  again  the  battles  of  their 
youth. 


THE   SONG    OF   THE    GALLEY-SLAVE. 

DASH  on,  thou  dark  blue  wave, — 

In  freedom  onward  roll ! 
I  love  thy  wild  career, 

It  cheers  my  saddened  soul ; 
To  dance  upon  thy  bosom, 

So  proud  and  joyously, 
My  frame  with  rapture  thrills, 

My  eye  gleams  bright  and  free. 


38 

The  heart  which  softness  feels 

May  love  the  placid  stream, 
When  o'er  it  brightly  steals 

The  silent  pale  moonbeam. 
But  dear  to  me  thy  roar, 

It  doth  a  bliss  impart; 
It  breathes  a  spell  which  wafts 

A  gladness  o'er  my  heart. 

Dash  on  —  dash  on,  —  thou  wave, 

And  sweep  the  foamy  sea; 
Thy  waters  seem  to  lave, 

And  set  my  spirit  free. 
What  though  my  weary  limbs, 

These  iron  fetters  bind, 
I  yet  am  bold  in  heart  — 

I  yet  am  free  in  mind! 

HARVARD. 


NATIONAL   NOVELS. 

WHILE  we  are  erecting  monuments  of  stone  to  the 
valor  of  our  ancestors,  it  is  also  meet  that  we  should  pre- 
sent to  the  eye  some  living  memorial  of  their  characters ; 
that  their  history  should  be  interwoven  with  our  national 
literature,  and  thus  an  imperishable  remembrance  of  their 
deeds  be  transmitted  to  posterity.  It  is  not  sufficient 
that  history  records  their  exploits;  it  presents  us  with 
but  a  partial  view  of  their  worth.  We  can  only  attain 
to  a  just  estimation  of  them  by  a  knowledge  of  their 
general  character.  National  novels  are  the  best  medium 


39 

for  obtaining  this  knowledge.  It  is  the  part  of  the  novel- 
ist to  portray  character,  not,  as  of  the  historian,  to  record 
events.  He  examines  into  past  and  contemporary  history 
to  acquaint  himself  with  the  character  of  the  subjects  of 
his  fiction  in  real  life.  Possessed  of  a  perfect  knowledge 
of  his  hero,  it  is  his  part  to  develope  the  character,  by  cre- 
ating circumstances  which  elicit  its  principal  traits.  What 
a  correct  impersonation  of  the  loyal  cavalier  is  Sir  Henry 
Lee  in  "  Woodstock  !  "  What  a  faithful  delineation  of  the 
Southern  Whig  Peasantry  of  the  Revolution,  is  the  char- 
acter of  Horse  Shoe  Robinson  !  The  characters  here 
mentioned  are  correct  representations  of  classes ;  but  the 
portraiture  of  individual  character  has  been  equally  suc- 
cessful ;  witness  James  the  First,  in  the  "  Fortunes  of 
Nigel." 

The  lapse  of  time  has  now  consecrated  the  memories 
of  the  men  of  the  Revolution,  and  sufficiently  removed  us 
from  the  equality  of  familiarity.  Some  venerated  relics 
still  survive  of  those  immortal  days,  whose  memories, 
rich  with  personal  recollections  of  the  great  commanders, 
afford  a  valuable  fund  of  information  to  the  novelist ;  so 
that  now,  ere  this  venerated  band  shall  become  extinct, 
the  national  novelist  should  hasten  to  catch  their  dying 
whispers,  and  thus  preserve  unbroken  the  chain  of  his- 
tory. We  rejoice  to  observe  this  actually  done  in  the 
revolutionary  tales  of  Cooper,  Kennedy,  and  Simms. 

Genius  has  the  power  of  consecrating  whatever  it 
touches.  Scott  has  made  the  scenes  of  his  novels  shrines 
of  literary  pilgrimage  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and 
sacred  spots  in  the  eye  of  the  people.  Gratitude  forbids 
us  that  we  should  cease  to  remember  one  spot  hallowed 
with  the  blood  of  our  fathers  ;  it  is  then  for  genius, 
through  the  novel,  to  point  out,  and  invest  these  spots 
with  the  enchantment  of  the  associations  of  romance, 
and  to  assist  the  historian  in  keeping  alive  a  remembrance 


.40 

of  the  past.  The  novel,  for  this  purpose,  is  more  effective 
than  the  history,  as  from  its  superior  interest  it  gains  a 
more  extensive  reading.  As  a  fiction  it  will  be  generally 
read,  and  thus  may  become  a  medium  of  the  widest  in- 
fluence in  developing  those  feelings  of  patriotism,  which 
the  exhibition  of  devotion  to  liberty  and  country  must 
always  promote. 

Inexhaustible  materials  for  fiction  may  be  found  in  all 
the  different  stages  of  the  history  of  the  continent ;  —  the 
Indian  traditions  still  handed  down  among  the  tribes  of 
the  west  —  the  inflexible  and  moral  Puritans,  with  their 
perilous  wars  with  the  savages  —  the  romantic  character 
of  the  Southern  settlers  —  and  the  great  drama  of  the 
Revolution,  with  its  stormy  prologue  and  eventful  scenes, 
—  all  these  different  periods  abound  in  distinguished  his- 
torical characters,  with  whose  delineation  the  novelist 
may  weave  into  his  tale  a  graphic  picture  of  the  times. 
With  this  prolific  source  of  material,  opportunity  is  af- 
forded of  creating  a  purely  national  literature,  founded  on 
our  own  history,  and  separate  from  that  of  any  other 
nation.  Such  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  done  for  Scotland, 
and  Miss  Edgeworth  for  Ireland ;  and  such  we  hope  some 
master  spirit,  who  feels  within  himself  the  ability,  may 
do  for  America.  Thus  the  novel  may  become  a  useful 
appendage  to  history  —  recording  events  too  minute  for 
the  dignity  of  history  to  commemorate,  and  presenting 
a  perfect  portrait  of  each  character,  which  is  only  known 
in  the  history  by  his  most  prominent  actions.  Our  tra- 
ditions should  be  recorded,  and  preserved  in  the  popular 
memory,  that  they  may  serve  in  moments  of  national 
gloom  as  quickening  appeals  to  patriotic  exertion.  The 
purest  models  of  patriotism  are  to  be  found  in  the  charac- 
ters of  our  fathers.  Let  them  be  illustrated,  and  set 
before  the  people ;  in  their  bright  examples  being  in- 
centives to  imitation,  and  in  their  history  of  sacrifices 


41 

marking  with  reprobation  the  citizen  recreant  to  his  coun- 
try's interests  and  honor.  We  want  a  fund  of  historical 
recollections  to  keep  alive  the  spirit  of  liberty.  Our 
country's  history  is  rich  in  such  animating  recollections. 
They  should  be  sought  out.  The  scenes  of  one's  own 
country's  history  most  forcibly  speak  to  the  feelings  of  man. 
The  invocation  of  the  Athenian  orators,  to  the  shades 
of  the  heroes  of  Marathon  and  Thermopyla3,  always  came 
like  an  exhorting  voice  from  the  sacred  dead.  So  let  the 
memory  of  the  men  of  '76,  with  the  fields  of  their  glory, 
be  kept  alive,  and  cherished  by  the  pen  of  genius ;  and 
we  also  shall  have  in  our  history  names  of  power,  whose 
bare  mention  shall  wake  the  sleeping  energies  of  the  na- 
tion. Novels  of  this  character  would  elevate  the  tone  of 
public  sentiment,  by  directing  it  to  the  contemplation  of 
high  moral  excellence,  and  a  correct  appreciation  of  the 
services  of  public  benefactors,  and  might  even  correct  the 
present  vitiated  taste  for  tales  of  gross  profligacy,  and 
unnatural  horrors,  by  the  very  contrast  which  the  differ- 
ent characters  of  the  two  species  of  writing  would  exhibit. 
Thus  every  mound,  which  covers  the  bones  of  a  soldier, 
may  teach  a  practical  lesson  of  patriotism.  The  curious 
stranger,  who  then  visits  our  shores,  will  not  travel  from 
Maine  to  Georgia  with  but  few  objects  to  interest  him, 
except  the  great  wonders  of  nature ;  but  at  every  step  he 
will  pause  to  ponder  over  some  spot,  hallowed  to  his  mind 
by  the  writings  of  genius,  and  the  local  associations  which 
they  have  awakened.  The  Chronicles  of  the  Cid,  wove 
into  verse,  were  long  the  battle  songs  of  the  Spaniards  j 
his  heroic  character  was  the  model  of  the  aspirant  after 
true  military  fame,  and  the  simple  exhibition  of  his  vir- 
tues, in  the  martial  ballad,  infused  into  the  Spanish  sol- 
diery a  romantic  love  of  valor  and  honor,  that  for  ages 
made  them  irresistible  in  the  field.  Are  there  not  in  the 
public  characters  of  the  fathers  of  the  Republic  virtues 

VOL.   II. NO.   II.  6 


"42 

more  elevated  and  inspiring,  than  even  those  of  the  Cid 
and  his  fellow  champions  ?  Truly  there  are  —  patriotism, 
which  in  the  Cid  was  a  selfish  love  of  glory  —  sacrifices, 
for  liberty  and  the  general  good,  without  a  parallel  in  the 
annals  of  history.  It  is  for  the  welfare  of  the  country  — 
for  the  just  formation  of  the  national  character,  that  they 
should  be  embalmed  in  some  species  of  writing  which 
most  frequently  meets  the  public  eye.  Novels  form  the 
reading,  in  some  degree,  of  all  classes  ;  and  it  is  in  works 
of  this  character,  treating  of  local  history,  that  this  de- 
sirable design  may  be  best  effected. 


THE   FAITHFUL  ABENAQUOIS. 

The  following  incident  occurred  at  a  village  of  the  Abenaquois,  on  the 
Outawa  river,  where  the  French  had  established  a  military  post,  early  in 
the  17th  century.  It  is  related  by  Pere  Lamartine,  in  the  "  Lettres  Edifi- 
antes  et  Curieuses,"  as  a  singular  instance  of  strong  affection  in  a  native. 

"  HUSBAND,  dearest,  do  not  leave  me, 

Thus  in  misery, — 
No!  thou  canst  not  so  deceive  me, 

Let  me  go  with  thee. 
Think  upon  the  accents  winning, 

Which  my  heart  beguiled; 
Think  upon  our  love's  beginning ; 

Think  upon  our  child. 
If  thy  haughty  people  spurn  me, 

And  the  pledge  I  gave  ; 
If  a  wife  thy  pride  would  scorn  me, 

Let  me  be  thy  slave." 


43 


Thus,  before  her  husband  kneeling, 

Prayed  the  Indian  girl; 
But  in  callous  tone  unfeeling, 

Spake  the  heartless  churl. 
"  Manta,  vain  thy  lamentation, 

Vain  thine  agony  ; 
Never  to  my  Christian  nation 

Canst  thou  go  with  me. 
Know  that  o'er  the  deep  blue  waters, 

Which  our  regions  part, 
Home,  and  wife,  and  lovely  daughters 

Wait  my  longing  heart." 

Wildly  frantic  Manta  started 

At  the  dreadful  sound, 
Senseless  then,  and  broken-hearted, 

Sank  she  to  the  ground, 
With  her  infant  in  her  bosom, 

Child  of  woe  and  shame  ! 
Like  a  yet  unfaded  blossom, 

On  a  broken  stem. 
Reckless  of  her  death  or  living 

Spurred  he  through  the  wild; 
And  the  Indian  girl  reviving 

Followed  with  her  child. 

Through  the  forest,  o'er  the  river, 

Fast  his  way  sped  he, 
But  the  Indian  woman  ever 

Followed  patiently. 
Famine,  toil,  nor  mountain  steepness 

Checked  that  wandering  dove; 
Who  can  tell  the  strength  and  deepness 

Of  a  woman's  love ! 
O'er  the  wide  and  pathless  prairie, 

Toward  the  rising  sun, 
Still  he  hastened;  faint  and  weary 

Manta  followed  on. 


44 


Crouching  there,  the  ambushed  foeman 

Smote  him  from  his  horse ; 
There  the  faithful  Indian  woman 

Found  his  bleeding  corse. 
Speechless,  numb,  in  frozen  sorrow, 

Seated  at  his  head, 
Through  a  night  that  had  no  morrow, 

There  she  watched  the  dead. 
Death's  deep  shadows  gathered  round  her 

With  their  icy  fold  ; 
There,  at  dawn,  her  people  found  her, 

Lifeless,  stiff,  and  cold. 

EL  AH. 


Life  of  Edmund  Kean.    By  BARRY  CORNWALL.    N.  York. 
Harper  &  Brothers.     1835. 

SINCE  Harvardiana  does  not  profess  to  be  a  reviewing 
magazine,  bound  implicitly  by  what  has  been  once  as- 
serted in  it,  we  would  wish  to  correct  partially  some 
opinions  that  were  advanced  in  the  last  Number.  We 
perhaps  are  wrong  in  saying,  we  wish  to  correct,  for  this- 
is  only  a  matter  of  individual  preference,  and  we  are 
equally  open  to  objection  for  any  opinions  that  we  may 
express. 

The  purpose  of  the  Life  of  Kean  appears  to  be  this,  — 
to  lay  before  the  admirers  of  the  drama,  an  exact,  impar- 
tial account  of  a  man,  who  was  allowed  by  all  to  be  one 
of  the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  English  stage.  How- 
ever much  disappointed  authors  and  actors  may  complain 
of  the  little  respect  paid  to  the  dramatic  profession  by 


45 

the  public,  it  is  apparent  to  impartial  observers,  that  the 
stage  is  not  yet  altogether  neglected,  and  that  any  thing 
connected  with  its  improvement  and  decline  is  anxiously, 
perhaps  too  anxiously,  watched  by  many.  The  theatre 
is  considered  not  merely  as  a  source  of  amusement,  but 
by  some  it  is  regarded  as  a  school  of  eloquence,  and  even 
as  a  criterion  of  public  morals.  It  is  not  for  us  to  decide 
whether  this  opinion  is  correct  or  not,  but,  at  any  rate,  its 
existence  proves  that  the  stage  is  not  condemned  or  de- 
spised altogether. 

It  is  in  consequence  of  this  feverish  anxiety  of  a  portion 
of  the  public,  concerning  every  thing  connected  with  the 
prosperity  of  the  stage,  that  the  whole  life  of  the  actor, 
his  public  triumphs,  and  his  domestic  relations,  are  so 
eagerly  examined.  His  companions  are  earnestly  scanned 
with  the  eye  of  curiosity,  and  men  are  not  content  till 
they  have  opened  his  mind,  and  laid  bare  all  his  principles 
of  action,  nay  all  his  thoughts.  To  satisfy  this  curiosity, 
the  numerous  memoirs  of  actors  and  actresses  are  penned, 
from  the  common  newspaper  column  and  a  half,  to  the 
labored  volume.  To  this  cause,  the  narrative  of  the  life 
of  Kean,  public  and  private,  at  the  scenes  of  his  triumphs, 
in  the  saloons  of  wealth  and  fashion,  and  in  the  taverns 
where  he  could  throw  aside  the  fetters  of  rank  and  cere- 
mony, probably  owed  its  existence. 

Kean  was  not  born  to  the  hereditary  possession  of  the 
stage,  but  was  obliged  to  work  his  way  up,  with  slow  and 
toilsome  progress,  from  the  lowest  rank  of  a  travelling 
band  of  low  actors,  to  the  eminence,  whence  he  dazzled 
and  astonished  the  world.  The  very  date  of  his  birth  is 
unknown  ;  and  the  biographer,  in  consequence  of  the 
early  obscurity  of  the  subject  of  his  narrative,  to  give  an 
account  at  all  perfect,  is  obliged  to  plunge  into  the  lanes 
of  innumerable  and  nameless  villages.  He,  who  after- 
wards drew  from  the  collected  thousands  of  Drury  Lane 


46 

the  tears  of  sympathy  and  terror,  was  to  be  found  at  one 
time,  accompanying  his  peddling  mother  in  the  exercise 
of  her  trade  ;  at  another,  swallowing  greedily  the  cheapest 
drink  afforded  by  a  knavish  landlord  to  a  poor,  beggarly 
"  camp-follower."  No  one  who  wished  a  true,  correct 
account,  would  expect  elegant,  high  wrought  descriptions 
of  scenes  like  these.  The  Life  of  Kean  is  not  a  romance  ; 
it  is  a  narrative  of  facts,  many  of  which  must  have  been 
in  the  highest  degree  repulsive  to  the  author.  He  knew 
his  difficulties,  and  attempted,  by  playful  pleasantries  and 
humorous  descriptions,  to  render  that  tolerable,  which 
otherwise  must  have  been  disgusting.  That  he  may  at 
times  have  offended  the  rules  of  good  taste,  that  he  may 
have  been  drawn  down  by  his  subject,  from  the  region  of 
refinement  to  a  less  congenial  atmosphere,  is  not  denied. 

Whether  the  life  of  so  low  a  person  should  have  been 
undertaken  at  all,  is  a  question  that  will  be  discussed 
elsewhere ;  but  this  Life  was  undertaken,  and,  in  our 
opinion,  successfully  conducted. 

The  biographer  is  deterred  by  no  difficulties,  but  fol- 
lows the  subject  of  his  narrative  from  his  boyhood, 
through  the  periods  of  youth  and  manhood.  We  see  the 
actor  as  a  husband,  as  a  father,  and  in  this  last  character 
we  rejoice  to  find  marks  of  deep,  generous  feeling.  We 
are  carried  from  scenes,  where  the  afflicted  father  is  com- 
pelled for  bread  to  assume  the  guise  of  merriment,  to  his 
home  to  see  him  mourn  over  the  loss  of  his  early  hopes, 
and  we  feel  that  he  was  not  wholly  debased.  We  con- 
sider it  no  trifling  merit  of  the  work,  that  it  presents  so 
full,  so  perfect  a  picture  of  the  man  in  every  situation. 

Soon  scenes  more  congenial  to  the  author's  taste,  than 
wanderings  to  and  from  the  provincial  theatres,  open  to 
view,  and  the  reader  accompanies,  with  lively  interest, 
the  actor  to  Drury  Lane,  shortly  to  be  the  field  of  his 
triumph.  But  innumerable  disappointments  are  thrown 


47 

in  his  way,  and  not  till  after  many  alternations  of  hope 
and  despair,  is  he  allowed  to  appear.  Shylock  is  chosen 
for  the  opening  of  his  splendid  career,  and  the  audience, 
although  with  tempers  vexed  by  the  unsuccessful  attempts 
of  other  aspirants  to  fame,  and  with  faculties  clouded  and 
benumbed  by  the  sleet  of  a  stormy  English  evening,  soon 
perceive  in  the  "  quick,  flashing  eye,  in  the  countenance 
taking  at  every  turn  a  vigilant  or  sinister  expression, >? 
that  the  Shylock  of  Shakspeare  is  before  them.  The 
barriers  overcome,  and  the  course  entered,  a  triumphant 
career  lies  before  our  actor,  and  Othello,  Richard,  are 
disclosed  in  their  true  and  full  proportions  to  the  admiring 
multitude. 

We  are  not  acquainted  with  the  newspaper  remarks  of 
those  days,  but  the  criticisms  of  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall  on 
Kean's  style  of  acting,  and  on  the  characters  of  Hamlet 
and  Othello,  do  appear  to  us  to  possess  some  little  merit, 
or  at  least  to  deserve  more  than  a  sweeping  censure. 
Were  we  to  choose  specimens  of  our  author's  style,  we 
should  give  his  criticisms  one  and  all,  but  time  would  fail 
us,  and  the  book  is  at  the  perusal  of  all. 

Unless  we  are  afflicted  with  that  morbid  craving  for 
attention  from  every  foreign  writer,  which  some  of  our 
countrymen  show,  we  see  no  reason  for  feeling  aggrieved, 
that  so  small  a  space  was  devoted  to  Kean's  visit  to 
America.  He  played  in  the  same  characters,  that  had 
been  criticised  in  an  earlier  part  of  the  volume.  Of  his 
success,  the  books  of  the  various  theatres,  as  well  as  the 
memory  of  some  of  us,  will  give  ample  proof. 

V. 


48 


Speeches  of  the  Right   Hon.    George    Canning.     8vo. 
Kay  &  Brother.     Philadelphia.     1835. 

IN  a  nation  yet  young,  and  but  just  forming  its  oratory, 
it  is  necessary  that  it  should  have  some  classic  models  of 
eloquence,  by  the  study  of  which  it  may  create  a  correct 
style.  It  should  have  some  manuals  of  instruction  to 
guide  aright  the  education  of  the  student ;  and  it  is  for 
these  reasons  that  we  rejoice  in  the  appearance  of  this 
second  number  of  a  series  of  volumes,  containing  collec- 
tions of  the  best  speeches  of  the  great  English  Orators. 
They  are  prepared  by  Mr.  Robert  Walsh,  the  eminent 
editor  of  the  "American  Quarterly  Review."  The  se- 
lections are  made  with  judgment,  and  the  prefaces  are 
written  in  an  elegant  and  pure  style.  The  volume  under 
notice  contains  the  best  speeches  of  George  Canning, 
preceded  by  an  interesting  and  comprehensive  biog- 
raphy. 

Mr.  Canning's  speeches  are  characterized  by  all  the 
essentials  of  perfect  oratory,  though  the  development  of 
each  of  these  requisites,  beyond  the  degree  to  which  he 
possessed  them,  is  necessary  to  make  a  perfect  orator. 
Brilliant  wit,  deep  and  solemn  pathos,  the  keenest  satire, 
and  great  logical  acumen,  he  possessed  in  an  eminent 
degree.  As  a  man  of  practical  wisdom,  he  always  adapt- 
ed his  address  to  the  character  of  his  audience.  Within 
the  Parliament  house,  his  speeches  seemed  framed  after 
the  most  rigid  models  of  ancient  eloquence,  pure  in  their 
taste,  and  entwining  the  choicest  flowers  of  classical  lite- 
rature round  the  solid  pillars  of  argument.  In  addressing 
the  people,  he  brought  down  his  mind  from  its  com- 
manding elevation  to  a  level  with  their  own  capacities  j 
not  indeed  sinking  into  vulgarity,  but  yet  speaking  in  a 
homely  English  style,  with  an  eloquence  that  made  every 


49 

word  thrill  upon  the  ear,  and,  like  one  of  our  own  orators, 
seizing  every  public  occasion  to  impress  his  hearers  with 
a  love  of  country,  and  an  attachment  to  high  moral  prin- 
ciples. His  rich  imagination  indeed,  at  times,  led  him  to 
decorate  his  discourses  with  too  much  ornament,  but  this 
was  only  an  occasional  defect.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  are  originally  endowed  with  great  capacities  of 
mind,  and  who  develope  their  powers  not  by  an  exclusive 
cultivation  of  one  faculty,  but  by  a  due  improvement 
of  all.  We  should  think  that  he  received  from  nature  a 
greater  proportion  of  the  imaginative  than  of  the  reasoning 
faculty  ;  but  yet,  by  a  proper  cultivation  of  the  latter,  he 
became  one  of  the  closest  debaters  in  the  English  Parlia- 
ment. His  success  was  an  illustration  of  the  great  ne- 
cessity of  extensive  acquisitions,  and  hard  study,  to  form 
an  orator.  His  speeches,  imbued  with  classical  lore,  give 
proof  of  his  devotion  to  the  great  writers  of  antiquity, 
and  their  many  illustrations,  drawn  from  almost  every 
department  of  literature,  testify  to  his  varied  learning. 

His  career  was  a  brilliant  one  from  his  youth  upward. 
At  Eton,  he  was  distinguished  as  a  scholar,  and  as  a  writer 
for  a  college  journal  founded  by  himself,  entitled  the 
"  Microcosm,"  which  was  conducted  with  remarkable 
ability.  At  Oxford  he  gained  great  reputation  for  his 
indefatigable  devotion  to  study,  and  his  success  in  com- 
peting for  several  prize  essays.  In  consequence  of  pecu- 
niary embarrassments,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Oxford 
without  graduating.  He  betook  himself  to  the  study  of 
the  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn ;  where  his  talents  immediately 
attracted  attention,  and,  as  a  young  man  of  abilities,  his 
acquaintance  was  solicited  by  the  leading  members  of  the 
rival  political  parties.  At  the  advice  of  Burke,  who  in  this 
instance,  as  with  Barry  the  painter,  generously  offered 
him  counsel  and  assistance,  he  left  the  law,  and  com- 

VOL.    II.  NO.    II.  7 


50 

menced  preparing  himself  for  a  statesman.     At  the  age  of 
twenty-four  he  entered  Parliament. 

Although  thrown  into  contact  with  the  great  orators  of 
the  golden  age  of  English  eloquence  —  Burke,  Fox, 
Sheridan,  and  Pitt,  he  soon  attained  a  high  distinction  as 
a  Parliamentary  orator.  He  enlisted  with  the  ministerial 
party,  and  thereby  put  himself  in  opposition  to  the  great 
orators  of  the  liberal  party.  He  soon  became  their  most 
formidable  opponent,  and  even  contested  with  them  the 
palm  of  eloquence.  While  Pitt  was  at  the  helm  of  state, 
guiding  the  vessel  with  an  energetic  arm,  and  a  cool 
judgment,  through  the  stormy  waves  of  public  excite- 
ment, raised  by  the  French  Revolution,  Canning,  with  a 
voice  of  power,  which  was  heard  even  above  the  roar  of 
the  tempest,  was  encouraging  the  mariners  to  duty,  and 
infusing  into  the  most  timid  a  spirit  of  courage  that  made 
them  look  danger  in  the  face,  and  bring  the  glorious 
vessel,  unhurt  by  the  fury  of  the  storm,  into  a  harbour  of 
peace. 

He  seemed  born  for  his  age  and  country.  At  the  out- 
break of  the  French  Revolution,  the  accumulated  weight 
of  the  liberal  opinions  of  two  centuries  was  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  British  constitution.  Had  not  the  greatest  intel- 
lectual power  of  the  country  come  to  its  assistance,  it  might 
have  fallen  a  victim  to  partisan  violence.  It  was  fortunate 
then  for  the  destinies  of  England,  that  Canning  lent  his  aid 
to  the  ministerial  party.  His  political  wisdom  was  mani- 
fested in  this  particular,  that  observing  the  increased  sway 
of  liberal  opinions,  he  deemed  it  most  prudent  to  relax  in 
some  degree  the  severity  of  tory  principles.  He  therefore 
infused  into  the  policy  of  that,  the  then  reigning  party,  a 
tone  of  liberality,  which  modified  their  character,  and 
diminished  the  virulence  of  opposition.  Like  our  fathers, 
in  the  formation  of  our  constitution,  he  made  provision  to 
adapt  the  British  constitution  to  the  character  of  the  times, 


51 

without  however  impairing  its  stability,  or  original  form. 
His  views  thus  answered  to  Burke's  description  of  a  good 
government. 

"  If  there  be  one  criterion,  which,  more  than  all  the  rest,  dis- 
tinguishes a  wise  and  prudent  government,  from  an  adminis- 
tration weak  and  improvident,  it  is  well  to  know  when,  and  in 
what  manner,  to  yield  what  it  is  impossible  to  keep. "  * 

His  elocution  was  of  a  commanding  character  —  of 
deep  intonation,  with  a  strong,  and  flexible  voice.  It  was 
manly,  and  gave  proper  effect  to  his  sentiments.  His  face 
bore  the  impress  of  his  mind.  His  forehead  rose  high 
and  bold,  and  his  eyes  were  brilliant  with  intellectual 
light.  He  died  when  in  full  possession  of  the  great  object 
of  his  ambition  —  the  Premiership  —  amid  the  universal 
regret  of  the  nation.  The  exhibition  of  such  a  life,  marked 
with  so  many  virtues,  is  an  ennobling  object  of  contem- 
plation. Such  men  as  Burke  and  Canning  raise  the 
standard  of  moral  excellence,  and  exert  an  influence 
which  extends  to  the  latest  posterity.  An  examination 
into  the  character  of  such  minds,  in  their  biographies,  must 
produce  a  beneficial  influence  on  the  reader  ;  inspiring 
him  with  a  love  of  virtue,  by  an  exhibition  of  its  genial 
effects  as  developed  in  their  practice,  and  prompting  him 
to  a  persevering  cultivation  of  the  intellectual  powers,  by 
showing  him  what  great  effects  they  may  produce,  when 
properly  improved.  Though  it  was  satirically  said  of 
Burke, 

"  He,  born  for  the  universe  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind," 

yet  we  think  it  cannot  be  properly  said  of  Mr.  Canning. 
His  powers  were  such  as  could  insure  success  as  an 
orator,  and  it  was  necessary,  at  the  time  he  entered  on 

*  Speech  on  America. 


52 

political  life,  that  every  powerful  mind,  adapted  to  poli- 
tics, should  devote  itself  to  the  defence  of  the  state.  His 
energies,  united  with  those  of  Burke  and  Pitt,  prevented 
the  overthrow  of  the  government,  and  the  consequent 
long  train  of  evils  which  would  have  ensued  on  such  a 
calamity.  As  every  statesman  has  it  within  his  power 
to  do,  he  improved  the  condition  of  society  by  the  enact- 
ment of  wise  measures,  tending  to  promote  tranquillity 
and  the  security  of  personal  rights,  and  he  lent  his  influ- 
ence to  the  exertions,  then  begun,  to  suppress  the  slave 
trade,  and  which  afterwards  had  a  successful  issue.  The 
influence  of  his  actions  may  be  seen  in  all  the  beneficial 
effects  growing  out  of  the  above  results,  and  which  at 
once  exempt  him  from  the  denomination  of  being  "  a 
mere  politician,"  a  name  which  is  so  profusely  applied  by 
the  unthinking  to  statesmen  who  have  not  founded  a  new 
empire,  or  overthrown  an  old  one. 


THE   TEAR   OF   SYMPATHY. 

>T  WAS  not  thine  eye  so  calm  and  bright, 

Nor  cheek  of  rosy  hue, 
'T  was  not  the  smile  that  met  my  sight, 

That  could  my  heart  subdue; 
Although  that  soft  and  azure  eye 
With  brightest  gem  on  earth  could  vie. 

'T  was  not  that  all-enchanting  sound, 

The  music  of  thy  voice, 
Where  that  sweet  melody  is  found 

Which  bids  the  heart  rejoice ; 


53 

Although  'twould  all  the  passions  move, 
And  wake  the  softest  strains  of  love. 

'T  was  the  tear  of  compassion, 

That  dimmed  thy  bright  eye, 
That  caused  me  to  love  thee, 

And  heave  the  deep  sigh. 
Like  the  dew  drop  at  even, 

That  kisses  the  flower, 
Like  the  rain  drop  from  Heaven, 

That  waters  thy  bower ; 
Like  twilight's  first  star, 

Shining  bright  and  alone, 
Was  that  beautiful  tear 

From  thine  eye,  my  loved  one. 

J.  W. 


THOUGHTS  ON   THE  "CANT  OF   CRITICISM." 

"  less  dangerous  is  the  offence 
To  tire  our  patience  than  mislead  our  sense. 
Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this, 
Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss. 
A  fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose, 
Now  one  in  verse  makes  many  more  in  prose." 

THE  fact  herein  stated  we  hold  indisputable. 

Why  is  it  that  the  author,  he  who  attempts  to  please 
or  improve  a  community,  and  enrich  or  elevate  himself, 
by  a  public  exhibition  of  his  depth  of  thought,  his  wit, 
or  his  fancy,  should  be  assailed  by  such  myriads  of  diffi- 
culties, pass  before  such  an  infinity  of  courts  of  errors 
and  appeals,  and  be  lauded  and  condemned  by  final  and 


54 

irresponsible  judges  without  number,  over  and  above 
what  can  ever  fall  in  the  way  of  the  artist  or  the  archi- 
tect ?  If  either  of  these,  by  a  brilliant  painting,  a  grand 
or  beautiful  edifice  or  statue,  challenge  the  attention  of 
the  public,  it  is  his  undoubted  right  to  demand  that  his 
work  be  examined  and  criticised  by  men  of  science  and 
skill,  proficients  in  his  art,  or,  at  least,  that  their  judg- 
ments, their  praises,  their  censures  alone  be  generally 
respected  and  followed.  But  let  ever  so  unpretending  a 
piece  of  literary  architecture  be  once  erected  and  brought 
to  view,  every  artisan  who  has  ever  wielded  a  pen,  who 
has  driven  a  nail  or  fitted  a  joint  which  has  gone  to  the 
making  of  a  theme  or  a  sonnet,  or  who  has  even  dreamed 
of  doing  so  much,  deems  it  his  privilege  to  scan  nearly 
and  minutely  all  its  divisions  and  proportions,  to  test  the 
strength  of  its  solid,  the  accuracy  and  beauty  of  its 
ornamental  parts  :  perhaps,  without  taking  so  much 
trouble,  to  form  at  once  a  decisive,  irreversible  judgment 
on  the  merits  of  the  whole,  and  trumpet  it  to  the  little 
or  the  great  world,  of  whose  tastes  and  opinions  he  has 
the  guidance.  And  who  can  tell  the  number  of  such 
censors  ?  — 

"  Go  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea." 

Amid  their  hosts,  how  hard  for  any  fit,  true  standard  of 
public  taste  to  preserve  its  station,  and  to  be  discerned 
and  followed  ! 

And  why  is  it  thus  ?  He  will  doubtless  be  able  to  an- 
swer the  question,  who  has  first  succeeded  in  satisfactorily 
accounting  for  the  general  prevalence  of  that  "cacoethes 
scribendi,"  whose  nature,  symptoms,  and  means  of  cure 
were  so  eruditely  set  forth  in  the  last  number  of  our 
magazine.  For  that  pestilence,  so  obnoxious  in  itself, 
becomes  a  subject  of  vastly  increased  moment,  when 
considered  as  the  basis,  the  first  cause,  and  the  constant 


55 

sustainer  of  the  still  more  extended  and  more  fatal  one 
we  are  now  discussing,  and  which  might  not  improperly 
be  denominated  cacoethes  censendi. 

"  Quod  medicorum  est 
Promittunt  medici,  tractant  fabrilia  fabri ; 
Scribimus  indocti  doctique  poemata  passim  "  — 

and,  when  this  is  the  case,  and  when  moreover  it  happens 
that  "  ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss,"  it 
certainly  becomes  us  to  pay  a  portion  of  our  serious  at- 
tention to  these  ever  great  and  ever  growing  evils. 

An  insuperable  difficulty  meets  him  at  the  outset,  who 
undertakes  to  enter  into  any  general  statement  of  the 
causes,  manifestations,  and  remedies  of  the  propensity 
just  alluded  to.  They  are  as  absolutely  endless  as  the 
characters  of  mind  it  affects.  We  shall  be  content  with 
faithfully  representing  a  few  of  the  appearances  of  per- 
sons in  real  life,  who  have  met  us  while  under  its  actual 
influence,  generalizing,  classifying,  and  affixing  names, 
both  generic  and  specific,  in  such  manner  as  may  best 
suit  our  individual  convenience. 

One  of  the  first  subjects  of  our  attention  will  naturally 
be  the  literary  croaker.  No  mind  can  be  a  fitter  receptacle 
of  cacoethes  censendi  than  one  characterized  by  that 
grumbling,  unquiet,  ^sometimes  tart  and  waspish,  temper, 
which  finds  its  highest  delight  in  sneering  at  all  charac- 
ters, arid  frowning  upon  all  enterprises,  that  meet  its  ob- 
servation. The  unhappy  victim  of  this  propensity  directs 
his  view  to  the  literary  efforts  of  his  friends  and  neigh- 
bours ;  conscious  perhaps  of  his  own  inadequacy  to  the 
production  of  any  thing  approaching  to  the  grand  or 
beautiful,  he  finds  it  a  convenient  method  of  obtaining 
at  least  the  negative  fame  of  a  critic,  to  ridicule  the 
attempts,  laugh  at  the  failures,  and  sneer  at  the  successes 


56 

of  equally   competent   and   more   venturous   souls.     He 
"  turns  critic  in  his  own  defence." 

.  "All  fools  have  still  an  itching  to  deride, 

And  fain  would  be  upon  the  laughing  side." 

Winning  indeed  must  he  be,  who  is  able  to  change  his 
unvarying  smile  of  scorn  into  one  of  approbation  and 
delight  ;  grand,  powerful  beyond  measure  must  be 
that  which  can  awe  and  force  him  into  rendering  a  tri- 
bute of  admiration,  whose  uniform  and  natural  offering  is 
indifference  or  contempt.  He  is  perhaps  himself  hardly 
conscious  of  the  resistless  power  by  which  he  is  held  in 
subjection  to  the  fatal  propensity  under  our  consideration. 
Scanning  every  work  that  may  fall  in  his  way  with  eyes 
eagerly  bent  on  the  detection  of  defects  and  blemishes, 
his  distorted  vision  at  length  comes  to  view  these  in  all 
cases  as  the  principal  objects  of  notice,  the  main  constitu- 
ents of  the  piece,  and  its  nobly  or  beautifully  wrought 
passages  (if  indeed  he  be  capable  of  at  all  perceiving  or 
appreciating  them)  merely  as  the  effect  of  incidental  and 
unavoidable  flashes  of  wit  or  genius.  With  a  judgment 
thus  miserably  perverted,  thus  wretchedly  illiberalized 
and  debased,  has  he  been  wont  to  pass  sentence  upon  the 
characters  of  those  about  him :  it  is  idle  to  hope  a  better 
fate  for  their  works.  This  creature  has  from  his  earliest 
recollections  upward  been  lost  in  one  continued,  stupid 
wonder,  why  all  the  silly,  disgusting,  teasing,  vexing, 
maddening  things  in  the  world  happen  to  lie  precisely  in 
his  path.  We  leave  him  to  settle  the  problem,  and  to 
learn,  as  we  trust  he  sooner  or  later  will,  the  interesting 
truth,  long  since  preached  by  a  fallen  spirit,  in  regard  to 
the  mind,  as  being  "  its  own  place."  This  is  no  fancy 
sketch.  The  last  time  we  saw  our  friend  the  prototype, 
(for  friend  of  ours  he  certainly  is,  and  we  have  no  small 
pride  in  the  relation,)  he  was  intensely  occupied  in  search- 


57 

ing  out  the  ugliest  portion  of  the  first  number  of  a  recently 
issued  periodical.  We  left  him,  as  he  threw  it  aside,  with 
something  between  a  sigh  and  a  sneer,  at  the  emptiness 
and  flatness  of  all  sublunary  things. 

Next  come  your  true  critics  magnifiques.  The  distin- 
guishing characteristic  of  this  class  is  an  uncompromising 
disdain  of  all  tastes  and  opinions  pertaining  to  the  sove- 
reign ol  noMoi. 

"  So  much  they  scorn  the  crowd,  that  if  the  throng 
By  chance  go  right,  they  purposely  go  wrong." 

It  has  been  our  fortune  too  to  be  an  intimate  of  one  of 
this  species.  Blessed  with  a  generous  heart,  and  of  pow- 
ers and  a  judgment  by  no  means  contemptible,  in  an  evil 
hour  he  fell  in  with  the  lofty  mystifications  and  sublime 
absurdities  of  a  pair  of  modern  poets  we  may  not  name. 
His  brain  was  turned :  dim  images  of  pastorals,  tragedies, 
epics,  and  laurel  crowns  have' from  that  time  forth  crowd- 
ed it  with  a  medley  of  phantasms,  beside  which  the  vision 
of  the  inspired  Bottom  himself,  —  that  vision  which 
"  man's  hand  may  not  taste,  his  ear  see,  nor  his  tongue 
conceive  "  —  might  sink  into  the  most  insignificant  and 
prosaic  reality.  Gloriously  abstracted  from  the  petty  and 
gross  world  below,  his  whole  interests,  sympathies,  affec- 
tions seem  transferred  to  that  realm  of  ether,  where 
"  thron'd  on  the  centre  of  his  thin  designs,"  he  delights 
to  reign  in  peerless  sublimity,  "  lord"  (we  hope)  "of  all 
he  surveys."  How  should  a  head  thus  lifted  above  the 
atmosphere  of  our  planet  be  within  the  infection  of 
cacoethes  censendi  ?  Alas !  who  will  not  stoop  to  con- 
quer? Our  dear  friend,  (and  he  is  but  one  of  a  class,) 
amid  all  his  time  consecrated  to  moon  raking,  has  ever 
found  ample  opportunity  for  inspecting  the  literary  efforts 
of  his  terrestrial  neighbours.  And  still  worse,  (what  a 
piece  of  work  is  man  ! )  our  critic  magnifiqm  is  no  less  a 

VOL.    II.  NO.    II.  8 


58 

critic  enricux.*  A  few  months  since  his  lofty  spirit  was 
suddenly  seized,  and  completely  overwhelmed,  with  some- 
thing very  like  a  feeling  of  generosity  and  compassion 
for  a  then  newly  commencing  magazine.  He  blessed  it 
with  his  most  condescending  and  cheering  smiles.  But 
there  was  no  accounting  for  the  distorted  vision  of  those 
in  power  :  in  utter  disdain  of  his  high  approbation,  they, 
in  the  blindness  of  self-complacency,  ventured  an  irreve- 
rent remark  on  some  of  the  minor  pieces  of  the  above 
mentioned  modern  poets.  Whoever  has  faithfully  pe- 
rused and  feelingly  sympathized  with  the  sensations 
experienced  by  Gulliver,  when,  on  waking  from  sleep,  he 
found  himself  fairly  bound  to  the  earth  by  the  choleric 
little  citizens  of  Lilliput,  may  form  some  conception  of 
the  lofty  yet  bitter  wrath  of  our  hero,  when  he  first  be- 
held the  reward  of  his  condescension,  manifested  in  this 
gross  insult  to  the  gods  of  his  idolatry,  (no  small  part  of 
which  he  of  course  appropriated  to  himself,)  and  felt  his 
own  hitherto  resistless  Pegasus  thus  momentarily  checked 
in  his  soarings,  by  such  a  corps  of  nonentities  as  the 
editors  of  a  magazine.  Not  that  he  was  susceptible  of 
any  thing  like  mortification,  resulting  from  wounded 
feelings  and  a  diminution  of  self-esteem ;  —  the  farthest 
from  it  possible.  The  satire  of  the  aforesaid  editors 
he  of  course  viewed  as  proceeding  from  arrogant,  pigmy 
intellects,  between  which  and  his  own  transcendent 
spirit  intervened  space  'immeasurable.  He  remounted 
indignant  to  his  home  in  the  clouds,  whence  he  has 
since  monthly  descended,  to  watch  the  labors  of  those 
who  presumed  thus  to  slight  his  proffered  favor,  and  to 

*  "  Le  vrai  n'est  pas  toujours  vraisemblable."  Whoever  pre- 
sumes to  question  the  correspondence  of  our  sketch  with  nature, 
is  requested  to  look  carefully  once  more  at  least  before  his  final 
decision. 


59 

let  fall  upon  them  his  high  malediction.  Moreover,  the 
event  just  narrated  seems  to  have  been  the  ultimate  cause 
of  an  attack  of  the  true  cacoethes  censendi,  of  the  most 
virulent  and  malignant  character.  It  would  be  painful 
to  pursue  his  farther  history,  and  he  must  be  left  here,  if 
we  would  secure  time  and  space  for  a  portrait  of  yet  one 
more  sufferer. 

This  is  that  most  obnoxious  of  all  censors,  the  critic 
ponctuel.  He  may  be  seen,  almost  daily,  darting  along 
tlie  streets,  with  a  host  of  foreign  and  home-bred  reviews 
in  one  hand,  and  of  grammars,  dictionaries,  and  disserta- 
tions on  nice  points  in  language,  in  the  other,  the  very 
personification  of  optimism,  the  fac-simile  of  Dr.  Slop 
himself.  His  whole  capacious  brain  has  been  for  years 
absorbed  in  one  thought; — it  is  the  abstract  notion  of 
that  seventh  folly  of  science,  a  "  faultless  piece,"  pro- 
nounced by  the  highest  authority  something  which 
"  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be."  In  his  pursuit  after 
it,  he  has  always  at  least  the  negative  happiness  of  know- 
ing where  it  is  noty  he  being  blessed  in  profusion  with  a 
certain  happy  faculty,  enabling  one  successfully  to 

"  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side," 

which  faculty,  moreover,  he  is  ever  exercising  to  the  ex- 
treme discomfort  of  his  less  punctilious  neighbours.  And 
thus,  buoyed  up  "  on  wings  of  gilded  butterflies,"  he 
moves  on,  'mid  "  trifles  light  as  air,"  in  undoubting,  un- 
tiring search  after  that  real  substance  answering  to  his 
ideal  perfection,  which  is  ever  eluding  his  gaze,  and 
evading  his  grasp.  Success  to  his  labors  ;  —  and  such  a 
wish  we  must  utter  in  the  spirit  of  the  purest  benevo- 
lence, for,  of  a  certainty,  he  is  by  no  means  the  •  <• 
placid  or  harmless  of  the  multifarious  orders  of  err 
lying  under  the  influence  of  cacoethes  censer 


60 

teasing  preciseness  and  verbality,  his  fondness  for  giving 
a  "  local  habitation,"  and  a  very  noisy  one,  to  those 
"  airy  nothings  "  in  his  brain,  so  much  better  dreamed  of 
than  endured  in  waking  life,  and,  above  all,  his  unhappy 
keenness  of  perception  and  sensibility  to  errors  and  de«- 
fects,  invisible  to  ordinary  mortal  sight,  render  him  any 
thing  but  a  desirable  companion  for  a  half  hour,  and  any 
thing  but  a  pleasing  or  improving  subject  of  contempla- 
tion to  our  readers. 

As  above  stated,  the  labor  of  enumerating  and  fully 
describing  all  the  genera  and  species  of  the  mighty  hosts 
subject  to  the  influences  of  cacoethes  censendi,  would  be 
absolutely  endless.  There  are  your  critics  ignorans.  Of 
these  there  are  of  both  kinds,  the  ignorant  in  toto  and 
in  partej  (by  which  last  we  would  denote  one  destitute 
of  knowledge  or  taste  on  some  particular  class  of  works 
or  branch  of  literature.)  —  Then  there  are  your  "lauda- 
tores  temporis  acti,"  and  in  turn  your  admirers  of  every 
thing  novel;  —  "some  foreign  writers,  some  our  own 
despise."  Then  come  the  critics  singulaires,  (above  de- 
scribed,) and  in  much  larger  numbers,  that  vulgar  species 
who 

"ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their  own, 
.  0  .    But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  town." 

Moreover,  there  are  in  awful  abundance  critics  sublimes 
and  critics  vulgaires,  critics  poetiques  and  critics  prosa- 
iques,  critics  enthousiasmes  and  critics  stupides,  critics 
philosophiques  and  critics  ridicules. 

If  this  be  a  true  view  of  cacoethes  censendi  and  its 
victims,  it  will  be  at  once  perceived  how  utterly  hopeless 
is  the  task  of  the  philanthropist,  who  essays,  by  any 
general  prescription,  to  "  administer "  to  such  infinite 
varieties  of  "  minds  diseased,"  of  which  perhaps  almost 
every  individual  would  require  a  different  treatment. 


There  are  however,  a  few  considerations  which,  offered 
purely  by  way  of  preventive,  may  be  of  some  service, 
and  which,  therefore,  we  beg  leave,  in  the  shortest  imag- 
inable compass,  to  subjoin. 

•  What,  then,  are  the  essential  constituents,  the  distin- 
guishing characteristics  of  a  true  critic  ?  The  settling  of 
this  point,  as  it  will  be  advantageous  to  all  desiring  to 
become  such,  may,  on  the  other  hand,  be  somewhat  prof- 
itable to  those  vile  profaners  of  the  art,  who  abuse  and 
pervert  it,  without  inquiry  or  care  about  its  nature  and 
purposes. 

In  the  first  place,  it  may  be  thought  almost  needless  to 
mention  those  obvious  requisites,  a  sound  judgment,  a 
cultivated  taste.  The  first  of  these  is  of  course  absolute- 
ly indispensable,  and  must  be  held  of  primary  importance. 
It  is  in  consequence  uniformly  pretended  to  by  all  true  or 
false  professors  of  the  art.  This,  however,  will  clearly 
be  of  little  avail,  if  unattended  by  the  second  requisite 
above  mentioned,  a  cultivated  taste; — cultivated,  we 
mean,  in  regard  to  the  particular  department  of  literature 
and  kind  of  works,  on  which  its  criticisms  are  to  be  em- 
ployed. The  architect,  whose  principal  concern  is  with 
foundations  and  stone  pillars,  seldom  deems  it  his  duty 
to  criticise  what  is  intended  purely  for  ornamental  or 
fancy  work ;  he  would  become  an  object  of  ridicule,  if 
he  should.  Equally  presumptuous  must  that  literary 
critic  be  held,  who,  having  directed  his  studies,  for  ex- 
ample, entirely  to  works  of  a  philosophical  and  scientific 
character,  fancies  himself  entitled  to  pass  judgment  on 
those  of  belles-lettres,  perhaps  of  poetry,  without  know- 
ing or  seeking  to  know  any  thing  of  the  nature  and 
objects  of  this  part  of  literature,  or  even  to  comprehend 
the  true  definition  of  the  term  which  expresses  it. 

Perhaps  one   might  consider,  as  included  in  a  sound 
judgment,  that  non-descript,  undefinable,  yet  every  where 


62 

useful  quality,  denominated  nil  admirari.  The  intelligent 
critic  will  always  be  found  far  from  extremes. 

11  For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  approve." 

Ho  will  rarely  be  led,  by  even  the  most  glaring  and  gross 
faults  of  a  work,  into  indiscriminate  and  uncompromising 
censure  :  he  will  always  be  ready,  amid  the  highest  beau- 
ties, to  discern  and  point  out  defects. 

It  is  perhaps  the  most  material  part  of  the  province  of 
the  critic  to  decide  what  should  not  be  written.  Such 
qualities  then  as  originality  and  beauty  of  conception, 
imagination,  wit,  depth  of  thought,  and  others,  of  vital 
importance  to  authors  in  different  departments,  are  not  in 
themselves  equally  essential  to  their  judges  and  censors. 
Yet  it  may  be  doubted,  whether  they  will  not  serve  as  very 
efficient  aids  in  the  formation  of  that  judgment  and  taste, 
which  all  accord  in  positively  requiring.  Pope  did  not 
think  it  extravagant  to  say,  that  they  alone  should  "  cen- 
sure freely,  who  have  written  well :"  —  and  certainly,  that 
a  critic  be  able  to  enter  into  the  spirit  in  which  an  author 
writes,  to  feel  something  of  his  enthusiasm,  to  form  some 
conception  of  his  trains  of  thought,  will  be  of  incalculable 
advantage  in  enabling  him  to  come  to  some  just  apprecia- 
tion of  the  mind  of  the  writer,  and  of  the  soundness,  the 
beauty,  or  the  grandness  of  the  writing. 

All  that  we  might  add  is  best  expressed  in  the  following 
passage,  from  that  youthful  yet  masterly  performance  of 
Pope  —  the  "  Essay  on  Criticism." 

"  But  where  3s  the  man  who  counsel  can  bestow. 

Still  pleased  to  teach,  and  yet  not  proud  to  know ; 

Unbiassed,  or  by  favor,  or  by  spite  j 

Not  dully  prepossessed,  nor  blindly  right ; 

Though  learned,  well  bred  ;  and  though  well  bred,  sincere  ; 

Modestly  bold,  and  humanely  severe  ; 

Who  to  a  friend  his  faults  can  freely  show, 

And  gladly  praise*  the  merit  of  a  foe  ; 


63 


Blest  with  a  taste  exact,  yet  unconfined ; 
A  knowledge  both  of  books  and  human-  kind ; 
Generous  converse  ;  a  soul  exempt  from  pride ; 
And  love  to  praise,  with  reason  on  his  side  ? " 


THE  LAY   OF   THE   JILTED. 

BELIEVE  the  cloud  that  veils  the  sun 

Will  ne'er  depart  —  will  ne'er  depart, 
Believe  that  pity's  voice  will  melt 

The  miser's  heart  —  the  miser's  heart; 
Believe  that  storms  will  never  curl 

The  quiet  wave  —  the  quiet  wave, 
And  trust  that  charms  have  power  to  rend 

The  silent  grave  —  the  silent  grave; 
Believe  that  flattery's  fawning  tongue 

Will  ne'er  beguile  —  will  ne'er  beguile, 
Aye,  trust  the  faith  of  woman's  frown ; 

But  not  her  smile  —  but  not  her  smile. 

The  gladdening  rainbow  surely  tells 

The  storm  is  past  —  the  storm  is  past, 
Her  sweetest  smile  but  shows  the  heart 

Is  most  o'ercast  —  is  most  o'ercast. 
Her  vows  as  fair  and  fleeting  are 

As  winter  snow  —  as  winter  snow, 
The  lover  swears  her  softest  yes 

Is  always  no  —  is  always  no. 
Cupid  one  day  his  skill  would  try, 

I  watched  his  dart  —  I  watched  his  dart, 
It  pierced  the  maiden's  whalebone  stays, 

But  not  her  heart  —  but  not  her  heart. 

ELAH. 


64 


TO   ADELA. 

LADY,  by  the  stars  that  glisten 

In  yon  conscious  arch  above, 
By  the  viewless  forms  that  listen 

To  my  plighted  vow  of  love, 
By  this  heart  which  fondly  flingeth 

All  its  incense  on  thy  shrine, 
Speak  the  word  that  rapture  bringeth, 

Whisper,  dearest,  thou  art  mine. 

O  delay  not ;  —  bitter  sorrow 

For  thy  coyness  have  I  borne ; 
Let  me  not,  another  morrow, 

Feel  within  the  festering  thorn  ! 
Ah  !    that  gentle  smile  thou  wearest 

Speaks  of  pity  for  my  pain  ; 
Bless  thee !  bless  thee !  sweetest,  dearest ! 

Let  me  see  that  smile  again. 

Lady,  do  those  witching  glances, 

And  that  bosom's  gentle  swell, 
And  the  soft  blush  that  entrances, 

Sign  a  joy  words  cannot  tell  ? 
Speak  they  not  the  first  of  blisses, 

First  on  earth,  and  first  above  ? 
Seal  the  holy  bond  with  kisses,  — 

Holy — for  the  bond  is  love. 

ELAH. 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

LEAVES  FROM  A  TRAVELLER'S  NOTE  BOOK.  —  No.  II.  33 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  GALLEY-SLAVE,  ...  37 

NATIONAL  NOVELS, .38 

THE  FAITHFUL  ABENAQJJOIS,  ....  42 
LIFE  OF  EDMUND  KEAN.  By  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

( A  Review  of), 44 

SPEECHES  OF  THE  RIGHT  HON.  GEORGE  CANNING. 

(A  Review  of), 48 

THE  TEAR  OF  SYMPATHY, 52 

THOUGHTS  ON  THE  "CANT  OF  CRITICISM,"  .  .  53 
THE  LAY  OF  THE  JILTED,  .  .  .  .  .63 
To  ADELA,  ........  64 


NOTICES  TO  CORRESPONDENTS. 

"A  Child  of  Nature"  is  indeed  a  natural ;  he  has  "  wandered 
abroad  "  twice  to  no  purpose  :  we  advise  him  for  the  future  to 
stay  at  home  and  keep  quiet.  "  Mother  Goose  "  we  presume  is 
so  well  appreciated,  that  there  is  no  need  of  attempting  to  unfold 
her  beauties  in  Harvardiana.  "  Complaint  of  the  letter  H," 
"Characters,"  "The  College  Bell,"  "Friendship  and  Love," 
"  Farewell,"  "  The  Grave,"  and  "  X;  I.  0."  acre  inadmissible. 


This  work  is  conducted  by  UNDERGRADUATES  OF  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY,  and   published 
Monthly  at  two  dollars  per  annum, — payable  in  advance. 


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